


Vaya Con Dios

by GayerThings



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Abuse, All mixed in with, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Gay Panic, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-02-10 08:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12908604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayerThings/pseuds/GayerThings
Summary: If there's one thing Billy knows, it's anger. Anger's his best friend. His only defence and his only weapon in the shit-hole of a world he lives in. After his fight with Harrington at the Byers' house, things go from bad to worse. It's all his fault. He pushes his dad until he snaps, and the beatings and violence are what he brings down on himself, even when he can't help whatever it is that makes his dad mad that time.He's sick of it. Billy knows what he is deep down. He knows what his dad's been trying to beat out of him since before he can even remember, and it's not working.Not with King Steve in the picture.





	1. Smoke on the Water

**Author's Note:**

> So sue me, Billy's my favourite. A hurting, angry, broken boy? Sign me up. Slow burn Billy/Steve fic with a whole load of angst and hurt, but with a happy ending for sure. Also I'm a huge music nut, so expect lots of music in this.

 

 

 

Billy comes round sluggishly with his eyes stinging. Someone's shining a light right in his goddamn face, and it hurts.

Everything hurts.

He screws his eyes shut tighter and instantly regrets it when he feels the skin and muscle of his face tear open where cuts had started to clot over.

“Hargrove.”

It's not his dad. The relief that surges through him takes the edge of the agony for a second. His fingers twitch, and despite the light, he tries to open his eyes.

The blurry, scowling face of Chief Hopper hovers above his, framed by a white glow. He looks like an angel. It's weird.

Billy tries to say something, but all that comes out is a wrecked sounding croak.

“Is he going to be alright?” There's another voice. A woman.

“Honestly, I swear, I have no idea what they did to him. He's the one who knocked me out.”

“Hey, amigo,” Billy manages to mumble. King Steve is here, too. Great.

Things are coming more into focus, and the clearer he can see the stranger things become. This is the Byers' house. There's weird shit all over the walls. His memory filters in like slow-drip coffee.

“Max,” is the next thing he's able to say, and then the chief is grabbing his arms and pulling him to sit. It hurts like hell, and it's hard to keep his head up. His mouth tastes like blood and cigarettes. Nausea pushes into his guts. Billy closes his eyes again as the world dips and spins.

“Max is safe. I took her home. Steve says you came here looking for her, before you picked a fight. Is that right?”

“Yup,” Billy says. He spits a wad of congealed blood out, dislodged from somewhere inside his nose. The woman and Steve both make a disgusted noise. Billy grins.

The chief's grip on his arms tightens and an ancient chill goes down his nape. Billy grits his teeth.

“Right. So when you arrived and found her with Steve... you got worried. Right?”

“Sure,” he replies. His head is starting to clear, but he still feels woozy. He was buzzed before he got here but he's woken up from drunken brawls with a much clearer head before.

Maybe he's just getting old.

“Your temper got the better of you, you got in a fight, and got knocked out. So here's what happened, kid. All the boys and your sister were round to keep Will company, and he took a bad turn. Joyce here called Steve, asked him to come round and look after the kids while she took Will to the hospital. That's why Steve was here with the boys and Max. Babysitting them. You hearing me, Hargrove?”

“Sure,” Billy says again. His teeth have started to chatter. He's freezing and all the adrenaline from the fight has long gone. He's exhausted and in serious pain.

“So I get a call from Steve, saying you turned up and started a fight, and here I am. That's what happened.”

Suddenly the chief is pulling him to his feet. Billy's knees almost give out. A combination of pain, panic, and dizziness makes him stumble, and the way the chief's fingers dig into his ribs makes his throat clamp up.

“So here's what I'm going to do, kid. I'm not going to take you in for this little fight. I get it, you were worried about your sister.”

Is he meant to thank the chief for not arresting him? It's not like Harrington's sitting at the station, and clearly Steve won the fight if he woke up first. Typical cop bullshit. Billy looks away, blearily taking in the destroyed house with the thousands of weird pictures stuck all over the walls and floors and doors. Then he sees Steve.

Billy laughs before he can help it. However bad he feels, Steve must feel ten times worse. His face is wrecked. Billy has a split-second memory of his fists pounding into Steve's jaw and the distant, muffled voices of those kids.

_”Stop! You'll kill him! You're killing him!”_

A second voice is layered over it, but less panicked. Susan. The same words, nowhere near as much desperation.

“Hargrove? I'm taking you home, kid.”

Billy jerks back to look at the chief, horror swelling in his gut.

“I can drive,” he says, but the chief is already half carrying him and half dragging him out of the house and into the weak sunshine of early November.

… That doesn't feel right. How long was he out?

“Your car's waiting for you at home.”

“What the...” Billy pats a clumsy hand – broken fingers for sure – over his pocket, and sure enough his keys are missing. “I'll walk back.”

Hopper laughs. There's only so much Billy can do as he's bundled into the back of the police car. He slumps against the seats, closing his eyes.

His dad is going to _kill_ him.

The chief's radio comes on when he starts the car. Billy knows the song instantly, even though it's almost finished.

_Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky._

Hopper turns the radio off.

The drive is silent. The chief's definitely taking the corners and pot-holes carefully, and Billy's internally grateful. The wooziness is wearing off, replaced with a sharp nausea in the pit of his stomach. He puts his hand up to his neck where it aches on the side and hisses.

Max had done something. The swoosh of the nailed bat sailing through the air to slam down perilously close between his legs echoes in his mind, but he'd been on his back before that.

His car is parked neatly in the driveway. Hopper pulls in and sits for a second before he turns back to Billy.

“Listen, kid. You're a regular pain in my ass and your temper's going to get you in a whole hell of trouble if you keep this stuff up. But I get it. Wanting to protect your kid sister. So I'm going easy on you this time.”

Billy laughs again.

Fuck Max for running away and starting all this shit. She's not his sister, and he couldn't give a shit about her – except that if something happened to her, he'd pay for it. Fuck Hopper for not arresting Steve. And fuck Steve Harrington for the extra layer of cuts and bruises on his face. Fuck him for pushing his buttons, for goading him into the fight by lying, fuck him for getting Billy's blood boiling when he was already half off the rails. Anger flares in the pit of his gut and the impulse to punch out the window of the car is curbed only by the front door opening.

His dad stands there, a mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

Billy's stomach drops out from under him. He can't breathe for a second, sure his dad heard the babble of thoughts going through his mind. Then the chief is opening the car door and dragging him out.

“Chief Hopper,” Neil says. “I see you found Billy. I'm so sorry for the trouble he's caused.”

The chief's grip is tight around his upper arm. Probably so he can't bolt. Or collapse. Either way, it makes it harder for Billy to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of being trapped.

“It's not a problem. Picked him up from the Byers' house.”

“The poor boy who went missing last year? Billy was harassing them?” Neil puts his coffee and newspaper down on the railings of the porch and begins to walk over to them.

Billy feels like he's about to puke his guts up.

“... Well, not them,” the chief says. “He got into a fight with a classmate over at their place.”

“Who?” Neil asks, standing opposite Billy.

He looks calm and collected. Billy knows he's passed anger. His dad is _furious_. He can't look away when his dad's gaze snaps onto his.

“Who?” Neil says again, a little softer.

“Steve Harrington, sir.” He can't quite choke the break from his voice.

“Steve Harrington. Well. We have a few apologetic phone calls to make, don't we, Billy?”

“Yes, sir.”

For a moment he's tempted to push back. To talk back, to do _something_ so that the chief will see the real Neil Hargrove. But the impulse is gone as soon as it comes and his brain throws up a couple more stupid ones. Punch Neil. Punch Hopper. Steal the police car. Run.

Billy doesn't move.

“With all due respect, Mr. Hargrove, I think he needs to go to the hospital first.”

Neil's eyes snap to Hopper.

“What for?”

The chief's grip tightens on his arm. Billy instinctively stands straighter even though the pain makes his breath catch.

“I reckon he's got a couple of fingers broken at least. Harrington put up a good opposition. Better get the kid checked out. He's sorry enough for what he's done, in my opinion. Aren't you, kid?”

Sorry. He's always _sorry_. Sorry Max ran away, sorry Neil and Susan never come home – not that he wants them there. Sorry he went looking for Max, sorry he found her in a weirdo's house with goddamn King Steve.

His jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache. The worst part is the burning in his nose and the red-hot coal lodged in his throat.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he says, and he's not sure if he's talking to Hopper or his dad.

Neil looks to him again, and he knows his dad can see the beginning of tears. Shit. He knows how much his dad hates it when he cries. The explosion of anger in his belly mingles with the copper and the iron on his tongue. He wants to laugh, wants to start swinging and kicking and howling.

Billy takes a slow breath through his nose and imagines wrapping a fist around the bubbling rage. Then he imagines crushing it down and down and down until his hands stop shaking.

Later.

The chief takes his hand off Billy's arm. He sways, and he plants his feet. Neil points to his car.

Later. After Neil pretends to take him to the hospital. After he's gotten through whatever punishment is coming his way. Later he'll go and get so fucking drunk he won't be able to think about anything at all. He'll find something to break, and he'll drink, and he'll smoke, and his stupid life in this stupid waste of space of a town will continue.

 

 


	2. Jailhouse Rock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you guys are hungry for Billy/Steve fic. Well, let me provide. Thanks so much for all the love and support!

 

 

To Billy's surprise, his dad drives him to the hospital without a word. Billy keeps quiet as he stumbles into the waiting room. He answers the nurse calmly, simply telling her he got into a fight with a classmate as his dad watches in silence.

Neither of them make a sound as she resets two of his fingers and splints his right hand.

Small fractures, no stitches, and a hell of a lot of bruising. That's all. He doesn't get why he still feels so sick and woozy, but he doesn't bring it up. A few minutes later a doctor stops by to check him over and tells them he's got a classic concussion – typical after a fistfight.

It makes sense. Billy's had concussions before, though he'd never felt so wobbly so long after the fight. He must've hit his head real hard.

The nurse smiles at him as she puts some antiseptic cream on the small cut on his cheek. Billy swallows hard, that red-hot coal in his throat burning brighter. His eyes sting and he drops his gaze.

“There,” she says. “All done. You're free to go home, Billy. Put some ice on the swellings, drink plenty of fluids, and rest for a few days. Try not to bump your head again and be careful with your fingers, and you'll be as right as rain before you know it.”

Anger flares in his belly like paper catching light and his lips tug into a grin that shows too much teeth. Right as rain. Yeah, right. Not if his dad can help it. Neil's hand on his shoulder douses the flames like ice-cold water pouring down his spine. Sweat beads on his brow and his jaw clenches.

“Thank you for your help, miss. We're grateful, aren't we, Billy?”

“Yes, sir,” he grits out. “Thank you.”

Billy keeps his eyes on his hands.

“We'll get out of your hair, now. I'll be taking him home.”

“Of course. Hopefully I won't be seeing you in here any time soon,” the nurse says. Billy can hear the smile in her voice as he pushes himself to stand on wobbly knees. He doesn't look at her.

“You don't need to worry about Billy,” Neil says. It sounds genuine. Like a real, caring father. But Billy knows the words for what they are: a promise.

This is the first and last time his dad will ever take him to a hospital. If Max is home, all Neil will do is shout. If it's just Susan, he's got a few punches to contend with. If neither are there...

Well, he probably wouldn't make it back to a hospital anyway.

Billy watches in silence as his dad pays in cash for the hospital visit, folding the receipt into a neat rectangle and slipping it into his pocket.

The urge to run is overwhelming. He doesn't know exactly where in Hawkins this hospital is, but he can run faster than his dad. Usually.

Maybe not in this condition.

Shit, he hopes Max and Susan are home.

Billy stays quiet as he climbs back into the car, holding his hand to his chest. There's an exhaustion in his bones he can't shake. If his dad's knuckles weren't white on the steering wheel, if that little muscle in his jaw wasn't jumping, he'd drift off where he's sitting.

His heart pounds in his chest and he has to concentrate on taking one breath after the other as the shit-filled countryside slips past them.

Please let Max and Susan be home.

By the time they get back to the house Billy feels ready to scream. He's so tense he's bitten through the inside of his cheek. Something's going to happen. Any second now that calm facade is going to drop, and his dad's going to lose it. His hands shake as Neil parks the car and gets out.

He watches Neil walk past the front of the car and up the porch steps, into the house without a single word.

All Billy can do is stare in shock, mouth a little parted and chest heaving. Sweat is running down his spine. Is this a trick? A test? Is he meant to stay in the car, or get out? What's he meant to _do_?

He's paralysed for what feels like forever before he slowly climbs out of the car, shutting the door quietly. Billy looks over to his own car. If he had his keys he'd just leave. He'd leave Hawkins. Leave his dad and Susan and Max in the dust, cut his losses and just... go.

Except his dad would just find him, like last time. Like every time he'd tried to run away as a kid. Neil always appeared, and Billy always went back.

The sudden roar of his fury in his ears makes him sway on his feet. His heart pounds like a battle drum. Billy chokes out a laugh and his eyes sting viciously.

One day he'll leave. Either when his dad kicks him out – something that always feels just round the corner – or when he decides the shit he puts up with isn't worth the benefits. That feels just round the corner, too.

Billy shakily wipes the few scalding tears from his aching jaw and tries to calm his breathing. He imagines the crushing fist again, and when he can inhale without his voice hitching, he walks into the house as quietly as he can and lets the door click closed behind him.

Neil is sitting at the table, a plate of toast in front of him and his coffee mug steaming. Susan's washing dishes with her back to him. Max is nowhere to be seen.

Billy slowly puts his not-broken hand against the wall and sinks his weight down into his feet. He draws his shoulders in and waits.

After a minute of silence except for the rush of running water, Neil looks over to him.

“Susan and I are going out for lunch. Max is in her room. Both of you are grounded for the weekend.”

Billy's mind can't grasp what Neil is saying. He's just... speaking. Calmly. Quietly.

“I don't think I have to tell you that means no leaving the house, Billy, do I?”

“No, sir,” Billy croaks. What's happening? Is he getting beaten, or what? Surely what he did is enough to earn a couple of punches. But his dad isn't moving, and Susan is still washing dishes.

Grounded. Shit, it's a Saturday. No school, no arcade for Max, and no driving. Where the hell are his keys? Did the chief take them?

Billy takes a cautious half-step towards his bedroom. His dad picks up the newspaper, and Susan puts more bread in the toaster.

His head is spinning more violently than if he’d just been punched. He _knows_ his dad is angry. Angrier than angry. He's never taken him to the doctor before, not even after much worse beatings than the fight with Harrington. He's never _grounded_ him.

By the time Billy gets to his room his fingertips are numb and his chest is tight. He doesn't know what any of this shit means, doesn't know what to expect. Is his dad going to hit him, or what? Now or later? Maybe he's holding it back because Max is home?

Billy suddenly wishes Susan and Max were out, just so this would be over. He closes his bedroom door and slowly sits down on his bed. He's shaking violently. It takes all his willpower to kick off his boots and unbuckle his jeans before he flops down onto the mattress.

Doom hovers above him like a shadow. He knows _something_ is going to happen, but he can't predict what.

His mind races along with his heart as he stares up at his ceiling. Whatever painkillers they gave him at the hospital are fading. Billy pulls his blanket over himself – over his head, too.

He hates this limbo. Rage battles with terror, but in the end exhaustion wins out and Billy falls asleep before he's even aware he's drifting off.

 

_Billy's sitting on a dark red carpet. He's around six, and the television is on. His mom is sitting on the sofa behind him, his dad in an armchair in the corner of the room with a book in his hands. A black and white movie is playing, and the most handsome man Billy's ever seen is on the screen. His dark hair is swept up at the front, and Billy jumps as the music starts._

_One, two. One, two two._

_The man appears again, leaning against a pole. He starts singing and it's beautiful. The best voice Billy's ever heard. He pushes himself onto his knees and edges closer to the television. The man's dancing, and Billy's heart skips in his chest._

_Rock, rock. Rock to the Jailhouse Rock._

_The man jumps onto a table. Billy wants to be there with him. It looks fun, and he thinks his dancing is probably good enough to impress the man. He feels like he swallowed butterflies._

_“Billy, I can't see through your head.”_

_“Sorry, momma,” he says, but he doesn't move. All he can see is the man. Billy presses his hands to his cheeks._

_He never wants the song to end. He wants to spend the rest of his life looking at him._

_“Momma,” he says. “I'm going to marry him, one day.” That's what marrying someone means, after all. You spend the rest of your life with them, and sometimes you go dancing._

_His dad's hand slams into the buttons on the television, and the image disappears along with the handsome man._

_“Daddy!” he gasps, looking up in frustration. It's not bedtime, and momma had said he could finish watching the movie because it was Friday._

_The next thing Billy's aware of is the carpet underneath his back and pain like he's never felt before exploding across his face. He blinks at the ceiling and bursts into tears._

_His dad hits him again, and Billy tastes blood in his mouth. He howls, and he can hear his mom yelling._

_“Neil! Stop! He didn't mean it! He doesn't know what he's saying! He doesn't understand, he's a child! Stop!”_

_Billy's feet dangle in the air as he's lifted off the carpet, and his head cracks against the living room wall. Through his tears he can see his dad's face, and it's terrifying. He's never, ever seen him this angry before. Not even when he's been spanked before, not even when he broke his dad's brand new watch by dropping it in the toilet. Billy sobs, trying to bring his arms up to cover his face, but his dad has them pinned down._

_“I will not have a faggot in my house. I will not tolerate any of that disgusting nonsense. I don't want to hear you ever say anything like that again. Do you understand me?”_

_All he can do is cry. His mouth is full of blood, and it's dribbling down his chin and from his nose._

_“Do you understand me?!” his dad suddenly roars._

_“Y-Yes,” Billy mumbles. When his dad goes still and very quiet, Billy somehow feels more afraid. His dad leans in closer._

_“I'm sorry, Billy, I didn't quite hear that.”_

_“Y-Yes, sir,” he chokes out._

_He hits the ground hard as he's dropped, and he reaches out for his mom. Except she's not there, and suddenly neither is his dad. The furniture is covered in white sheets, and all the family pictures are gone from the walls. He can hear the low, sombre voices of his relatives in the kitchen. His black suit is crusted with blood._

 

Billy wakes with a gasp, his heart pounding. He's slick with a cold sweat, and he barely has a second to think before he's rolling over in his bed and grabbing the metal bin beside his desk. His head pounds as he throws up. Tremors wrack his body.

It takes a few moments before he can slowly roll onto his back again. His cheeks are wet with tears and the dual image of Elvis Presley dancing and his dad's furious expression float around in his mind.

Shit.

He hasn't had a nightmare that bad in weeks. It's been a long time since he's puked after one, too.

Billy clambers out of his bed. His clothes are plastered to his skin. He grabs a fresh t-shirt from his wardrobe and a clean pair of boxers.

It's dark outside his window. The house is silent. All he can hear is his own ragged breathing. Did he sleep through the whole day? His stomach suddenly growls, and he swallows. He's hungry but he's got no appetite.

Billy stands by his door, ears straining to pick out any sound. After a few minutes of nothing, he slowly pulls the door open. The hallway is dark. He peers round the door frame, squinting to see the clock in the kitchen.

2:43AM.

Relief hits him so hard his knees wobble. They're in bed.

As quietly as he can, Billy creeps towards the bathroom. He shuts and locks the door behind him and pours the contents of the bucket into the toilet. He flushes. Neil's a heavy sleeper, and Billy doubts the shower will wake him up, but his heart knocks against his ribs as the spray hits the bottom of the tub with a rattle.

He peels off his damp shirt and jeans. The splint doesn't look like it's coming off, but he's sure the nurse said something about it being fine in the shower if he tried to keep it dry.

Billy stands under the spray and watches the water turn pink, flecked with dried blood. The tile is cold as he leans against the wall. He closes his eyes.

He can still hear Jailhouse Rock in the back of his mind.

Rage bubbles in his belly, but he's too tired. Even after sleeping all day exhaustion is like a rock in his chest. He still feels on edge, and he's still listening for footsteps over the running water. There's still a punishment coming his way.

His knuckles twinge. An echo of when he slammed them into Steve Harrington's face. Blood on his fingers and smeared across Steve's lips, his stupid hair still coiffed up.

Billy blinks at the wall and chokes back a laugh.

Steve's got the same goddamn hair as Elvis. King Steve, and The King.

He viciously twists the handle to cold water and grits his teeth. It stings along his skin. His bones begin to ache with the cold, but if he hits the wall he'll definitely wake up Neil and Susan. He's not sure his broken hand can take more punching right now. Billy's an idiot, but he's not stupid.

The cold bites. When his teeth start to chatter he turns the spray back to warm. He's still shivering, and once he's sure most of the blood and sweat has been washed away from his skin and his hair he rinses out the bin and turns the shower off. The drip drip drip of water sounds eerily loud. Or everything else is too quiet.

Shit. He hasn't been this on edge in months. Hawkins is a shit-hole and he misses California fiercely, but Neil's calmer here. Mostly. Or Billy just pisses him off less. He's not really been here long enough to make trouble, except for now, and he doesn't know what to expect.

That's probably it. There are new rules here, and he doesn't know how to navigate them. He's got no friends here. No one gives a shit about him. Billy dries himself off and pulls on his t-shirt and boxers. Then he hovers at the bathroom door for a second. When there's no sound, he opens the door and sneaks out of the bathroom with the bin in his other hand.

The hallway is dark and empty.

In California there was always somewhere to go when he needed to get out. He didn't even need to take his car. There were buses, and stuff was just round the block. He never had lots of friends, but there had been a few.

There had been Daniel.

Billy's fingers twitch with the urge to slam his bedroom door shut behind him. He closes it slowly and carefully instead.

He's not thinking about that tonight. He's too goddamn tired, and he's got to be ready for tomorrow.

Billy climbs back into bed. His hair is cold and wet. He focuses on that, pushing the thoughts out of his mind until he's floating silently above them.

They'll go away soon. Like they were never there in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! We got into a bit of history here, huh?
> 
> If you liked it, please leave a comment! They really inspire me to keep writing :)


	3. T.N.T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap lol, thank you all so much for your love and support! Things start kicking up in this chapter :D Hope you like it! And a huge shout-out to my awesome beta!!! THANK YOU!!!

 

 

 

The weekend passes in a hazy blur. Max is mad, Susan is silent, and Neil is normal. Terrifyingly normal. As if Billy didn't even do anything. On Sunday morning Billy sits in front of the telephone with his dad next to him and obediently calls the Byers, the Harringtons, and Hopper to apologise for his behaviour. It's a sting to his pride, especially speaking to King Steve's goddamn mother, but the silent presence of his dad is enough to keep him from acting up. That and the flesh he chews off the inside of his cheek.

But nothing happens. He finishes the telephone calls, and Neil leaves.

Billy can't goddamn breathe. He's never felt this pent-up before. Even though he's still physically sore and exhausted he can't stay asleep. He wakes up again and again in the night with his heart pounding. Listening for footsteps in the dark.

On Monday morning, his dad drives Max and him to school in silence. He's light-headed as he climbs out the car. Some of the kids are looking at them and Billy feels that ancient anger rear its head.

He could push some buttons. Talk shit to Tommy or someone, find a way to relieve the tension. It's not like his dad’s going to be here. But shit, he can't get into a fight. Not today. Not with his dad still ready to blow.

School's a confusing blur, and he hears through the grapevine that Steve's not in. Something about a fight. Normally Billy would brag, but he's pretty sure he didn't win that one. The thought of his classmates finding out Max was the real winner is way too humiliating. He's got a goddamn reputation to uphold.

When basketball comes ‘round he keeps his shirt on to hide the mottled bruises across his torso and plays so violently he ends up getting sent off court before he's barely begun to work off steam. It makes him angrier, and in the empty gym changing room he punches a metal locker with his left hand until blood trickles down his knuckles.

It's the best he's felt since the fight.

Billy takes a quick shower. At least he's got less questions to answer with no one to see him like this. No one seems to have put his face and Steve's absence together yet, and he doesn't want to make it obvious.

Neil picks him and Max up. The ride home is silent. Walking into the house is like stepping into one of his nightmares. Sweat prickles along his spine and his hands shake as he tries to keep his freshly bruised knuckles hidden. Again, nothing happens.

Billy makes it all the way to Friday.

It's early evening, and Billy's long run out of cigarettes. He's aching to get in his car and drive somewhere, but he still doesn't have his keys back. He can't spend another goddamn weekend here like this.

Billy's heart trips in his chest as he awkwardly sidles into the living room. His dad is sitting in an armchair, reading a book. Billy clears his throat.

Neil looks up, gaze as sharp as razor blades.

“Sir,” Billy says, almost reflexively. He clasps his hands behind him, standing up a little straighter. Just like when he was a kid. He's even put on a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans, his hair scraped back. No product in his hair, no earrings or jewellery, nothing. As goddamn normal as you can get.

“Yes, Billy?”

“Max said you took my keys. To my car.”

Neil slowly closes his book and puts it aside.

“Yes.”

Billy hesitates. He can feel his blood rushing through his veins, can hear the whomph-whomph of it in his ears.

“So... am I still grounded?” he says, eyes darting over to where Susan usually sits. She's not there.

“You want to go driving, Billy? Is that it?”

“Yes, sir.” There's more confidence in his tone. For a second, he thinks his dad is going to give him his keys and that'll be the end of it.

Then something goes cold in Neil's eyes and Billy's mouth goes dry.

“You want to go driving,” Neil says again. He stands up slowly and calmly. Billy's palms are sweating. It's not a question, and Billy doesn't answer.

Neil steps right up in his face and Billy flattens himself against the wall.

Shit. _Shit_.

“If you want to go driving, _son_ , all you have to do is ask. Get in your car. Let's go for a drive.”

Driving is suddenly the last thing Billy wants to do.

“What about –...”

He tenses his body and plants his feet a second before the punch cracks into his jaw. It's not hard enough to draw blood. More of a warning tap. He shuts his mouth.

“Get in. Your car.”

Neil backs up to give him enough space to move. Billy's legs feel wobbly as he pushes himself off the wall and walks out the house. His heart is pounding but his brain is empty. He opens the passenger door and climbs into his car.

His dad sits in the driver's seat and starts the engine.

The family car is gone. Susan is out somewhere with Max. He's a goddamn idiot for not checking. Billy presses his tongue against his teeth and clenches his good hand into a fist on his knees.

Neil drives calmly, keeping to the speed limit as he heads out into the wasteland of Hawkins, Indiana. When he hits the open country roads he speeds up. It's dusk already, and Billy's shivering in his t-shirt.

“You know,” his dad says after twenty or so minutes. “My father told me on the day you were born that boys needed a firm hand, or they'd grow up soft. But I didn't listen to him. No, I listened to Debbie and her liberal fancies, and now look where we are, son. You killed your mother, and I'll be damned if you aren't trying your best to send me to an early grave, too.”

It feels like someone's wrapped a hand around his throat and is squeezing the air out of him. Billy's eyes burn and he feels his jaw tremble.

“She killed herself,” he spits out.

“Yes, she did. Because of you. And despite me taking a firmer hand to you even before that, you didn't learn, did you? How many times have we talked about respect and responsibility, Billy? And now, when Susan decides that the burden of _you_ is something she's willing to endure, this is how you treat her. This is how you treat your sister.”

Billy drags the heel of his hand across his cheek.

“Are you crying, son?”

“No,” Billy says, sinking down in his seat. His voice comes out thick and he inhales raggedly.

“This is my fault. I should've listened to my father. I should've taken a firmer hand to you, and maybe instead of having a pathetic faggot for a son, I'd have a good, kind, respectful boy I could be proud of.”

His chest tightens with burning pain and fury. They're words he's heard before countless times, but they make him snap every time. He can't help it.

“Well sorry you didn't beat it out of me,” Billy snarls.

“Not yet,” his dad says so quietly Billy almost misses it. Before he can respond Neil swerves the car off the road and throws his door open. Billy scrabbles for the door handle on his side, every instinct screaming for him to run. He gets three steps back towards the road before a fist in his hair stops him.

He plants his feet, but the punch to his gut knocks him down.

Stars glimmer above him in the twilight, and Billy checks out. There's nothing he can do to stop the blows. It's as bad as the last one in California, and when Billy can't count the stars he counts trees in the distance or the shoelace holes in his dad's shoes.

After what seems like years, Neil slumps against the car and pants. Billy's head is swimming, but like most beatings, Neil's mostly avoided going for the face. People ask less questions, but it leaves him thinking clearer. He doesn't move from where he's curled up in the churned mud of the field. His nose is bleeding. All he can taste is earth and blood.

“There's your drive,” Neil spits. “You can walk home.”

Billy waits until he can't hear the roar of his engine anymore. Then he rolls onto his back and laughs. It's wild and unhinged, just like how he feels. He raises a fist into the air and whoops. The stars twinkle. Billy whoops again and again, interspersed with raucous laughter until his voice cracks and he’s howling and sobbing in the shit-filled mud of some forgotten field in the middle of nowhere.

By the time Billy pulls himself to his feet the stars are gone. Thick storm clouds have rolled in and Billy’s bloody, dirty t-shirt sticks to his skin.

He feels better. His ribs ache and his stomach hurts every time he breathes too deeply. But his head feels drained. The board’s been reset, and now he's been punished… things are back to normal. He understands this.

A few minutes into the walk in the direction he hopes is home, the first smattering of rain hits his skin.

This is going to _suck_.

A mile or so in the rain has gone from a sprinkling to a downpour. Billy’s clothes are plastered to him, his hair stuck to his neck and face. It's November, and it's _freezing_.

Shit. Maybe he is going to die out here after all.

After another mile Billy hears the rumble of an engine behind him. He turns on his heel and sticks out his thumb. The headlights dazzle him, and he's got no idea who’s driving. No idea who drives right by him without even slowing down.

“Shit! Goddamn bitch asshole!” Billy yells, his voice wrecked and hoarse as he flips the car off.

A hundred feet ahead the car screeches to a stop and does a messy U-turn. Billy freezes as the car heads toward him. For a second he’s sure it’s going to try and hit him and he stumbles back off the road. But the car drives past him again.

“What the hell…” Billy mumbles. The car swings into another U-turn. It slowly drives toward him and pulls up alongside him with the window rolled down.

Steve Harrington is sitting in the driver’s seat.

“What the hell are you doing out here, Hargrove?”

Well goddamn.

Billy throws his hands up in the air.

“What’s it look like, amigo? Taking a walk in this fine Hawkins’ weather.”

“It's November. You don't have a coat,” Steve says slowly. His face is still sort of messed up, and he looks angry and confused. Mostly confused.

“Yeah. Well.”

Billy shoves his hands in his pockets and regrets it instantly as pain crushes through his right hand.

“You'll freeze out here.”

Billy shrugs. He starts walking again. Harrington’s hardly going to give him a ride.

Steve’s car crawls alongside him for a solid minute before it stops.

“Get in, Hargrove. Jesus Christ. You're insane, you know that, right?”

For a moment Billy stares at him and considers ignoring him and walking home like he's meant to. But his teeth are chattering and his body is starting to cramp with the cold.

He has to use his left hand to open the door. The splint on his right is broken from his dad’s boots, and he can't feel his fingers. To be fair, he's pretty numb all over.

Billy eases himself into the passenger seat and closes the door with a grunt.

Steve’s car is warm.

“I'm still pissed at you.”

“Yeah. I get it. Sorry for ruining your face, pretty boy.”

“Jesus, do you ever shut up? Just… shut up. You had no right to go for Lucas like that. Hell, you broke a plate over my head! They’re kids, you didn't need to do that to them.”

Billy’s mind whirls with replies. Steve had lied. Max had lied. Everyone had tried to trick him, and he'd been on edge. His dad was already mad and he'd been searching for Max for hours. He didn't do anything in that fight that hadn't been done to him. He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath.

But he’s too exhausted to reply with any of them. Steve’s car is warm and it's a long way home. Besides, his goddamn teeth are still chattering.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says quietly. Billy flinches as something hits him, and he opens his eyes. Steve’s warm jacket is half across him, and Steve’s eyes are fixed on the road.

“What the hell’s this for?” He mutters, voice a rasp.

“So you don't die of pneumonia in my damn car, Hargrove. Jesus. It's hard to be mad at someone who looks like a drowned rat.”

“Gee, thanks.” Billy replies, but he pulls the jacket over him like a weird blanket. He doesn't want to put it on properly. He's pretty sure the rain’s washed off most of the mud and blood but he doesn't want Steve seeing his busted hand.

The rain blatters on the roof of the car and they sit in silence for another few moments with the windshield wipers squeaking irritatingly.

“How the hell did you even get all the way out here?” Steve suddenly says. Billy jumps again as he speaks, and he scowls.

“Magic,” he sneers. His clothes are still soaking wet but now he's starting to generate some body heat under the jacket. He’s starting to feel the pain again as the numbness wears off. “Why do you care?”

“I don't,” Steve snaps back.

Another few miles go by.

“You look like shit. Did you get in another fight or what?”

“Yeah, me and the shit-fields of Hawkins. Think I won this one.”

Steve snorts out a laugh that actually sounds amused.

“I don't know, man. You look pretty trashed, you know?”

“Better than you, amigo.”

“Yeah, well. Who’s fault is that? Where the hell do you live, anyway?”

The lightness in the air is gone in an instant. Billy doesn't want to go home yet. Besides, if he just turns up so early, Neil will know he didn’t walk home. He might drive them back out.

“Doesn't matter. You can drop me at an all-night diner or something.”

“Are you kidding? This is Hawkins, not California or wherever you're from. We don't have those here.”

“Fine!” Billy snaps. “Then wherever the hell I can buy a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes. Goddamn. Not my fault your shit-hole town sucks.”

He’ll take trashed over somewhere warm if he has to. He'd rather have a burger and somewhere to doze until enough time’s passed it’s plausible he somehow walked home. There's a crumpled bill in his pocket and now the beating’s done his appetite is back for the first time in a week.

“We have diners, asshole, they just close after a while like _normal_ places do. It's not that late, Burger Chef’s probably still open. You wanna go there?”

“Sure,” Billy mutters. He closes his eyes again. He's starving and he's aching and he's still fucking freezing in his wet clothes. He's not angry, not in that deep, primal way he so often feels, but he's irritable for sure. Having to get favours from goddamn Steve Harrington isn't helping.

“You're welcome,” Steve says snidely. Billy flips him off without opening his eyes.

The next thing he knows someone is touching his shoulder. Billy jerks awake with a snort, pushing away from the hand. He blinks.

Steve Harrington, lit by a blue neon glow. It looks good on him.

It takes Billy’s brain a second to catch up.

“Woah, hey, chill out. Jesus, Hargrove. Are you always so jumpy?” Steve's got both his hands up and he's looking about as surprised as Billy feels.

“Shut up.” He pushes himself to sit properly and can't choke back the grunt of pain as his body protests. It's still raining heavily. Billy shoves the jacket off himself and immediately starts to shiver. He opens the car door and clambers out on unsteady feet.

Burger Chef is glaringly bright in the gloom. Billy squints at the windows and starts to walk toward the entrance.

When a car door slams shut behind him, he slowly turns. Steve hurries over.

“Hey! Wait. What the hell, Hargrove? Do you even have any money?”

Billy digs his less messed up hand into his pocket and pulls out the soggiest, most pathetic $1 bill he’s ever seen in his life.

Shit. He’d been sure that was a twenty.

Steve stares at it for a second, the rain starting to flatten his hair.

“Jesus Christ, Billy,” he says.

Shame rushes through him. Like a hibernating viper the anger stirs in his belly. He shoves the dollar back in his pocket. But before he can come up with some clever line, Steve walks past him and pushes the diner door open.

Once again Billy is left standing in the rain, staring at Steve Harrington in disbelief. After a second he follows him in. The blast of warm air is a welcome change, but his clothes are already soaked again.

Billy slides into the booth opposite Steve and keeps his busted hand under the table.

Without the road to concentrate on, Billy can see Steve taking all of him in. The lights are harsh and stark. If Steve looks shitty, Billy probably looks pretty damn terrible. He's shivering again but he tries to hold it back.

A waitress comes over with two menus and gives Billy the dirtiest look. He stares her down and snatches the laminated sheet from her with his left hand.

“Just, uh. Two coffees to start with, please,” says Steve.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Yeah, please. On the side.”

“Alrighty.”

Billy watches her walk away before he looks back to Steve.

“So are you buying me dinner, then?”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. You can pay me back at school.”

“Whatever.”

Billy looks down at the menu. He won't push his luck, but he's getting a burger and fries for sure. Their coffee arrives and Steve ends up ordering the same thing he wanted. There's an awkward pause as the waitress leaves with the menus and Billy dumps cream and sugar into his coffee.

He hates coffee, but it's hot and free for the minute.

Billy wraps his frozen fingers around the mug.

“Jesus, Hargrove, your _hand_ ,” hisses Steve.

His knuckles are swollen huge and purple, fingertips white and bloodless. His splint is smashed and hanging off in tatters. Bruises like an oil spill sneak up to his wrist. Shit. He really can't move his fingers.

“Yeah,” he says, and takes a gulp of the coffee. Steve doesn't push it and a few minutes later their trays arrive. As soon as the waitress is gone, Billy goes to town. Within seconds he's inhaled most of his fries.

He looks up at Steve, mouth full, and almost chokes on a laugh at the expression on the other’s face.

Billy swallows.

“You look like someone pissed in your cornflakes, princess,” he says as he shoves another eight or so fries in his mouth.

Steve somehow looks more horrified. Billy winks, and Steve shakes his head.

“You just reminded me of a kid I knew, Hargrove.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, digging into his burger. It's hot and delicious and _good_. He's finished before Steve’s barely picked at a few of his fries.

Billy slumps back on his seat and wipes his hand across the back of his mouth. Both his lips and his knuckles sting from the salt and the pressure, but it's easy enough to ignore. He downs the rest of his coffee.

Now he feels more human again.

Steve shoves his barely touched tray across the table to him.

“Here. Watching you eat made me lose my appetite.”

Billy raises his eyebrows.

“I'm not paying for your half.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just… I don't want it.”

Billy hesitates, searching Steve’s face. He doesn't know what he's looking for, and Steve quickly turns to signal the waitress back for more coffee. Whatever. Free food is free food. The edge has been taken off but he can still eat.

He goes slower this time. Steve sips his coffee and stares out the window. It's awkward and weird. Someone’s put some Tom Jones on the jukebox. It fits the diner, but not whatever the hell’s happening here.

He pushes the empty tray away after he's done with it.

“So…” Steve says. “I, uh… I passed your car. Your dad was driving.”

Billy freezes. His stomach lurches and twists violently. Steve sits back in his chair, putting more space between them.

It's probably a good idea.

“So, you know. I just… I mean, you know. Did he…?” Steve gestures at Billy.

The rain is still hammering down outside. He doesn't really know where Burger Chef is. Doesn't know where his house is from here. He's full, but he's still cold. It's definitely far too early to turn up at home.

“What,” Billy drawls, using his left hand to pick up his coffee mug. He slides his busted one under the table. “Your old man never took a firm hand to you?”

“Jesus, not… not like that. I got spanked a few times as a kid, you know, but not…” Steve’s eyes drop down to where Billy’s hand is hidden and then out the window to the rain.

“Whatever. Why the hell do you even care, Harrington? It's none of your business.”

Steve snorts and keeps his gaze fixed out the window. He looks… sad.

Billy's skin crawls. He lunges forward suddenly and Steve flinches, looking at him in shock. Billy grabs Steve’s coffee mug and downs the contents without breaking eye contact.

“What the hell, Hargrove!?”

There. Now Steve’s pissed and they're back to normal territory. Billy grins wide, feels his lips twitch with it. His boots squeak on the floor.

AC/DC comes on the jukebox and a thrill rushes through him. He drops the coffee mug onto the table. It lands on its side with a clatter.

Billy doesn't look away. He knows one way to feel better.

_'Cause I'm T.N.T., I'm dynamite.  
T.N.T., and I'll win the fight._

“Jesus, Hargrove. You're insane. What the hell are you doing?”

He doesn't know. He doesn't actually feel well enough to brawl, but he wants this whole situation back to something familiar.

Steve holds up his hands.

“I'm not fighting you, dude.”

“Why not? Scared I'll beat you again?”

Steve crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.

“More like I'm scared you'll drop dead if you take another hit. You seriously look like shit. Why’s it always got to be fighting with you, anyway? Doesn't that get tiring?”

Billy doesn't respond. For a second the swelling rage and adrenaline in his gut is frozen. And then it… fades.

Shit. He really is in bad shape.

“Whatever,” he finally mutters, slumping against the seat and picking up his mug again.

The waitress comes over with the check.

“We’re closing up early tonight ‘cause of the weather,” she says primly.

Steve hands her a $20 bill with a smile.

“Thanks for letting us hang out here. Keep the change.”

That earns King Steve a grin and a wink from her. Billy drops the cup again and the handle chips clean off.

“What the hell, Hargrove?” Steve groans. The waitress glares.

“Oops,” Billy says and pushes himself to his feet. “Thanks for the burgers and the ride, amigo.”

“Wait, wait.” Steve scrabbled out of his seat, following Billy to the door. “I'll drop you off. It's still raining. Where do you live?”

Billy hesitates, one hand on the door.

This is weird. Steve knows his dad drove him out to the middle of nowhere and beat him. He picked him up and bought him goddamn dinner, and now he wants to drop him off?

“What, this some sort of date to you, Harrington? Gonna take me to my door before curfew?”

Steve’s nose wrinkles.

“Very funny, Hargrove. Why do you have such a problem with someone trying to do something nice for you? It's November. It's pouring. You're in a goddamn t-shirt and this diner’s an hour’s walk from anywhere.”

Billy spins on his heel and grabs the front of Steve’s shirt with his left hand.

“And why the hell would you ever do anything _nice_ for me?” He growls.

There's something satisfying about how still Steve goes. The power rush is intense. But Steve calmly puts his hand on Billy’s wrist and slowly pushes his hand away.

“Because I don't get off on being an asshole. And if you freeze to death out there I'll feel guilty for, like, ever. So just… let me drive you home. Okay?”

Billy snatches his hand back. He doesn't know what to say. After a few heartbeats of silence he shoves the door open and storms out into the rain toward Steve’s car. He climbs into the passenger seat and pulls the jacket over himself again.

He won't fall asleep this time, but if Steve wants to play goddamn Mother Teresa he'll use the damn jacket.

Steve starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot.

“So are you going to tell me where you live or what?”

Billy mutters his address. Steve turns the heating up and the roar of the vents helps him keep his mind clear.

He almost nods off a few times, catching himself with his head rolling forwards before he can really pass out. Steve, to his credit, says nothing.

It's a half-hour drive before Billy recognises the road.

“Stop here,” he says, pointing to the junction a few hundred feet from his house.

Steve stops the car.

The lights in his house are all out, and he can see both his car and the family one parked in the drive.

“Are you --...” starts Steve. He stops, drums his fingers on the wheel, and speaks again. “Are you going to be, like… alright?”

“Shut the hell up,” Billy grits out. Steve doesn't goddamn care. Why the hell would he? Billy shoves the jacket off him and gets out the car.

“You're welcome!” Steve shouts after him.

Billy flips him off and doesn't look back. A second later he hears Steve drive off.

The front door is locked, but the key is under the plant pot on the porch. Billy lets himself in as quietly as possible. No one seems to be awake as he creeps through the living room and hallway, and then into the safety of his own room.

He peels off his wet clothes and bundles himself up in warm pyjamas Susan got him for Christmas that he's never worn before, and he climbs into bed.

Billy falls asleep almost instantly, the rumble of Steve’s car still echoing in his ears.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you enjoyed this chapter leave me a comment! They super inspire me to keep writing ;) Thank you!


	4. Paint It Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeaahh sorry it took me so long to update lol. Funnily enough I'm going through some MH stuff atm! But I'm still writing this. This chapter shoves the rating up ;)
> 
> Enjoy! And a HUGE thanks to my beta!!! Love u <3

 

 

Life returns to normal. Susan silently repairs the mangled splint the next morning and his fingers slowly start to heal up. He gets the occasional tap for attitude from his dad over the next week - never when Max is around, but Neil seems to care less and less about what Susan sees.

Most importantly, Billy has his car back. He goes to school and drops Max at the arcade to play with her weirdo friends, and he keeps hanging out with Tommy the knucklehead and the popular kids. When he gets asked about his hand, he tells people he slammed a door on it by accident and messed it up again. No one questions him further. It all just… falls back into place.

Except for Steve. Billy shoves him $5 on the first day they're both back at school.

“Thanks for dinner, princess,” he murmurs, winking at Steve before the other can say something sincere. He walks away quickly. The flash of concern in Steve’s eyes is way too dangerous, and he doesn't want to spark any conversation about what happened that night. He just wants to forget all about the neon light on Steve’s face, the warmth of his jacket, and the touch of his fingers when he pushed his hand away.

He’s not thinking about any of that.

Not even when he knocks Steve down in basketball and mockingly reminds him to plant his feet - because _come on_ \- and Steve gives him a look that feels like a gut punch.

Billy benches himself before he hits someone. He's still trying to stay out of serious trouble. At least until his hand’s healed up.

A month or so later the moon is grinning down at him in a sneering smile and the sky is lit up with stars. It’s clear out but December in Hawkins is freezing. Billy cuts the engine and sits outside his house, staring at the front door. The splint is off his hand though he’s still got to be careful with his fingers. It's late. Past midnight. He could just drive off again. Go somewhere, do something. He's all dressed up with no place to go.

Billy exhales and lights up a cigarette.

All that effort in his clothes and hair, and the bitch hadn't even put out. He'd heard Linda was an easy lay with the hots for him, and she’d seemed eager enough all the way until he'd driven them to her empty house and she’d shut the door in his face.

“Shit,” Billy groans, flicking ash out the window. He could go and cruise a bar or nightclub somewhere. Find some desperate chick he could flip over and fuck.

But this is goddamn Hawkins, and no one’s really anonymous here. Besides, all the bars will be closed by now.

He climbs out his car and quietly shuts the door. The cigarette chokes out in the mud as he grinds it under his heel.

It's usually simple enough to sleep with a girl. You either pick an easy one or an ugly one. It doesn't matter either way. He never keeps his eyes open, and if they get too loud and high-pitched he can tune them out now. He's had enough practice.

Billy keeps his footsteps light as he creeps into his house, sneaking through the kitchen and into his bedroom. He flips on his lamp and shuts the door behind him.

Fucking girls is easy now, too. A mouth’s a mouth, a hole’s a hole, and in the dark it's not like he can see her. She can't see him either, and he knows which parts to avoid touching. In the darkness it all feels good in the end.

Which is not how he’s currently feeling. Billy locks the door behind him and toes off his boots. He flops down on the bed and closes his eyes.

Shit. He tries not to do this, but he's desperate and on edge. It's dangerous. His mind wanders. And there's always that spark of fear that Neil will catch him and know the thoughts that creep in.

Billy tugs off his jeans and shirt and shuts off the light. He pulls the comforter up over his head and takes a slow breath.

His blood feels hot under his skin, and he's half hard already.

It's been ages.

He takes a second to clear his mind before he pulls his boxers off - keeping them close at hand.

The first brush of his fingers up along his cock makes him exhale raggedly.

God _damn_ it's been ages.

He concentrates on the feeling of skin on skin, taking his hand away to spit in his palm. His fingers brush his lips and he shivers.

The easiest one to think of is Velma. She’d cut her hair real short, her body blocky and her tits small. She'd always worn jeans and a t-shirt.

He tries to keep the vague image of her in his mind as he starts to stroke his cock. He imagines her on all fours, face hidden. Just her back and narrow hips and skinny thighs.

It works until he starts to feel really damn good. Then the image slips, and before he can catch himself his mind hurls a vision of Steve Harrington naked in the school showers at him. Billy’s cock throbs and then stings as he snatches his hand away.

 _Shit_. No. He's not jerking off to Steve goddamn Harrington.

Not again.

It's too dangerous. His heart is tripping in his chest and he squirms against his sheets. Shit. Panic wobbles somewhere between his belly and his lungs, strong enough to break the waves of arousal crashing through him.

He might not be able to control the dark, heavy dreams he has, but he can damn well control who he thinks about when he jerks off. He has to.

Billy turns his mind back to Velma, but the image of Steve is lurking just behind it. After a few more failed attempts he sits up and punches the pillow hard.

He's panting and his cock is aching. For a second he considers taking a cold shower, but he doesn't want to. It's been so long since he's jerked off, and he feels strung out.

Billy gets up and checks his door is locked. Then he climbs back into bed and pulls the covers over his head with his cheeks burning and shame weighty in his belly.

Just one more time.

It's too easy to call back the vision of Steve under the spray of the locker room showers. He swallows and wraps his fingers around his throbbing cock. The relief is so intense he has to bite down on his cheek to stifle the noise.

The image shifts to Steve lit by the neon lights of that diner, still naked, with rain hammering on the roof of Billy’s car. He's in the driver’s seat this time, Steve on his right, and there's a scratch of stubble under his palm as he imagines pulling Steve’s face to his.

Billy presses his cock flat along his belly and bites down on the palm of his left hand to muffle the low noises threatening to escape. He imagines Steve pressing up against him, the hard, hot length of another guy’s dick along his own. Then his mind jumps back to a few years ago, when he was drunk on cheap whisky with a bottle of lotion he'd shoplifted. He’d slid a slick finger inside himself and blown his load so quickly he’d barely had time to think.

The phantom feeling of his fingers pressing inside himself ghosts across him and as his mind conjures the vision of it not being his finger but Steve’s, he’s scrabbling for his boxers and coming so hard he can’t breathe.

He slumps down on his mattress. All the tension ebbs from his body as he catches the mess in his discarded underwear. His fingers shake as he folds up the material and drops it to the floor.

Nausea bubbles low in his gut. His cheeks are burning, shame writhing under his skin. If Linda had put out he wouldn’t be in this mess.

But even as he thinks that, he knows it’s a lie. This is a mess he’s been trying to get out of as long as he can remember and no matter what he does it doesn’t go away. Daniel had always said it wasn’t a choice, and--.

Billy rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head.

He’s not thinking about him. He’s _not_ thinking about Daniel.

It doesn’t stop the photo-like images flashing through his mind. Them in a park, drunk on shitty booze. Them sharing cigarettes. Driving. Laughing. Drunk on the beach at night, lit by the moon and stars, talking about their lives. Dreams.

Secrets.

His bedroom. A warm, big hand on his thigh and the scrape of stubble against his lips.

The door opening.

Billy sits up so violently the bed creaks. He throws himself out from under the comforter and pulls on some clothes. He grabs his keys and goes into the kitchen, opening the cracker box at the back of the cupboard where Susan hides her extra money and taking $10. The door clicks shut behind him as he keeps his mind blank. He climbs into his car.

The engine splutters to life and he pulls out of the driveway too fast, heading down towards where he hopes a liquor store will still be open. His hands are shaking on the wheel as the car accelerates. The dark road slips away under the bonnet and he feels like the black branches of the trees are reaching for him.

Billy aches for the sun and the heat. For neon lights and a city that never slept.

But he's stuck here now. It's all Max’s fault, that little _bitch_. She couldn't keep her mouth shut, and now he's trapped in Shit-Hole Hawkins.

The tires screech as he takes a corner too fast. Billy slams his hand against the radio, turning it to the only rock station around and cranking up the volume as loud as it'll go.

_I look inside myself and see my heart is black,  
I see my red door, I must have it painted black._

He knows this song. Billy throws his head back and howls out the lyrics, drumming wildly on the steering wheel as the car swerves and roars along the open roads.

Maybe he'll crash. Flip the car, and that'll be it. He wrenches the wheel to take another corner and lets out a whoop as the tires slide in the icy mud, the back end of his car fishtailing.

His heart rattles against his ribs as he loses control for a second, over-correcting and careening across the road. A tree looms up ahead of him and he swerves past it with an inch to spare before he manages to get his car under control and pulls over on the side of the road.

Billy bursts into laughter, slapping his hands against the wheel and dash as he bounces in his seat.

“Whoo! Close!” he shouts, slumping against the leather. The radio is still blaring and the engine idles as he pants heavily.

He barely has a second to catch his breath before he feels the hot sting of tears in his eyes and the burn in his throat.

“Shit. Goddamn,” he croaks, dropping his head against the steering wheel.

He hates this. He hates Hawkins. He hates his dad and Max and Susan. He hates his mom. He hates himself. He hates Steve and Linda and Daniel and Elvis Presley.

He hates that he knows the queer can't be beaten out of him, and he hates that he wishes Neil had tried harder.

Billy fumbles for the keys and cuts the engine. He sits there until the tears have stopped rolling down his cheeks and his breathing is normal again. It takes long enough that the cold from outside has crept in, and he’s shivering.

The engine grumbles as he starts the car, and the blast from the heaters is a welcome relief. He knows nothing’s going to be open in town, and he knows Susan’s going to realise he stole from her again.

He always does stupid shit like this. He always messes shit up. Something just clicks in his head and it’s like he can’t not do whatever his brain throws at him, and it’s always messed up shit. It’s always the goddamn wrong thing.

Billy can’t think of a single thing in the last few years that he’s done ‘right’. Hell, he can’t think of _anything_ he’s ever done ‘right’.

He’s a goddamn useless little bitch of a faggot waste of space--.

Billy slams on the breaks as his headlights illuminate a figure walking down the middle of the road and he lets out a yell as his car screeches against the asphalt and drifts a few feet. He almost goes through the goddamn windshield and his heart slams against his ribs as he scrambles out of his car.

“Hey!” he yells. “What the goddamn hell are you doing, you crazy-?!”

He stops suddenly.

It’s Steve Harrington, in a warm coat and holding a nail-studded baseball bat, looking just as shocked as Billy feels.

They both stand there, lit by Billy’s headlights and breathing heavily. The radio is still blaring tinny rock music.

“What the _hell_ Harrington? You trying to get run over out here? What the hell are you doing?” Billy finally says, flinging his arm out.

“I… couldn’t sleep…?” Steve says slowly. He stands up taller and tries to move the baseball bat behind him. As if Billy hadn’t already seen it.

“What the hell is that?” Billy asks.

“What?”

“The goddamn bat, princess,” he drawls, putting his hands on his hips. “You on your way to a fight or something?”

He knows that goddamn bat. The memory of it slamming down between his legs crashes into him. Max had had it. In the Byers’ weirdo house, with all the pictures on the walls.

“No! No. No, I… I was just… taking a walk.”

Something weird’s going on. Billy feels on edge. A spike of paranoia needles him that maybe Steve knows. Maybe Tommy knows. Maybe this is some sort of sick coincidence and he’s about to get beaten to death by the side of the road by a gang.

But this is Hawkins. No one here knows.

“It’s three in the goddamn morning, amigo. This whole situation stinks. Why are you wandering around out here like some psycho? What the hell’s even out here?”

He knows there’s some abandoned junk yard thing close by, but it’s just dark forest and ancient train tracks for miles.

Steve sags, suddenly looking exhausted. He shoulders the bat and shakes his head, starting to walk down the road.

“Forget it, Hargrove. I’m just taking a walk.”

Billy reaches out before his brain can tell him it’s a bad idea, catching Steve’s arm.

“You drunk? Or on something?” he asks. He doesn’t _care_.

… But he kind of owes Steve one, after the diner thing.

“What?! No! Jesus. Why do you care? I’m going home, anyway.”

Billy leans in but he can't smell booze or pot on him, and he doesn't look stoned. Just… spooked. He did nearly get run over.

“Did… did you just _smell_ me?”

Billy pulls back and lets go of Steve’s arm.

“Just enjoying the stink of bullshit, amigo,” he drawls, shoving his hands in his pockets. Steve doesn't even have a flashlight. The moon and stars are giving some light, but it's still dark as hell. Especially under the shadows of the looming trees. The thought of Steve wandering alone in the dark woods with a bat straight out a horror flick is eerie. It's the same feeling as the one he'd got in the Byers’ house; that something he didn't understand was wrong.

Billy walks towards his car and gets into the driver’s seat. He looks over to where Steve is still standing in the middle of the road.

“Get in, Harrington. You're gonna get killed out here or something.”

He slams the door shut and turns down the radio to a more normal level. Steve’s obviously hesitating and Billy bites back a laugh. The tables have turned. Sorta.

Finally Steve walks round to the passenger door and slowly opens it. He gingerly sits down, still clutching the bat.

“Chill out,” Billy says. Something about Steve’s demeanour is putting him on edge. Like the guy’s about to yell, “run!” or something.

… Maybe it's just the memory of what Billy had done under his blankets. Shame curls deep in his stomach, but he crushes it down with the twin knot of anger.

“Put the goddamn bat in the back, will you? You're making me nervous. Where the hell did you even get something like that? Did you make it?”

“Uh…” Steve turns, slowly dropping the bat on the back seat. “It was, uh, part of a Halloween costume.”

Billy revs the engine and squints over at Steve. That also stinks like bullshit. The bat looks way too real, and he saw Steve's Halloween costume this year.

Steve grins, lopsided and with that same wild look on his face. It reminds Billy of a deer he once saw, hit by a car and trapped in a wire fence. Eyes too wide.

He lets it go and lazily swings the car back onto the road. The proximity of Steve next to him sends ripples of terror and an almost smug satisfaction through him. Like he's getting away with something and about to be caught all at once.

“Why are you driving around out here anyway?” Steve says after a moment.

Billy shrugs a shoulder.

“Couldn't sleep.”

Steve laughs and crosses his arms.

“Well that makes two of us, I guess. Your, uh. Your hand’s looking better.”

Billy lifts it off the wheel and flexes the healed muscles and tendons. There's the slightest lean to his middle and fourth finger now. Probably thanks to his dad’s shoes before it could fix itself up properly.

“Yeah. Makes driving a hell of a lot easier.”

“Does that mean you'll drive like less of an idiot, now?”

Billy’s mind jumps back to almost crashing into the tree and losing control of the car. He grins and looks over to Steve, revving the engine enough to make the car jump forward a little.

“Nah. I drive how the mood takes me, amigo.”

“Jesus,” Steve says, gripping the dash as Billy makes the car jerk again. “Okay! Okay, I get it! You're a wild card.”

“Damn right,” Billy drawls, driving more sensibly. He hopes this is the right way. There hasn't been a turning yet and Steve hasn't said anything.

“Doesn't that get tiring…?” Steve asks quietly, after a few moments have passed.

“What? Driving?”

“No, I meant… it doesn't matter. Forget it. I'm just talking crap.”

Steve slumps back and closes his eyes. He's acting really weird. Billy's not exactly good with other people - not without huge effort and a goal in mind - but he's not an idiot. Something rattled Steve bad.

He's curious, but he's not sure he'll know what to do with the answer.

Billy takes a second to really look at Steve. Even in the dark he can see the bags under his eyes. His fingers are gripping his knees tightly, and there's a small frown on his face.

“... You in trouble or something?” Billy cautiously asks.

“God, no. I hope not.”

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. The trees seem even more ominous, the forest pressing in around them.

“... There something out there…?” he asks, his own voice quieter and more tense than he intends it to come out.

Steve goddamn shivers and opens his eyes. For a moment their gazes lock, and Billy knows Steve isn't bullshitting.

“There used to be.”

It sends chills down his spine. He's never been a fan of horror flicks. There's enough in his own damn house to scare him, after all.

“Wh--... like an animal or some dude or?”

Billy speeds up a bit. He wants out of this damn forest road. He can see glimpses of a metal fence beyond the tree line, glinting in the headlights.

The radio turns to horrible loud static and both he and Steve jump. Billy scrambles to turn it off, heart pounding. The tension in the car is so thick he can taste it, and the sudden silence is heavy over them.

“What the hell’s out there?” Billy grits out.

Steve opens his mouth to reply but something huge and dark bolts from the trees on Billy’s left.

They both howl in terror and Steve clutches Billy’s arm so hard it hurts. He slams on the brakes for the third time that night and swerves.

The car swings, the headlights illuminating the deer bolting across the road. They miss it by a hair’s breadth and the car leaps and shudders as it goes off the asphalt and onto the grass. He wrestles with the wheel and they end up half on the road and half off.

Steve is still gripping his arm and they're both breathing raggedly. They turn to look at each other at the same time.

There's a second of silence so intense it makes all the hairs on the back of Billy’s neck tug at his flesh, and then they both explode into wild, exhilarated laughter like the crack of thunder following the breathless silence after lightning.

“Holy _shit_!”

“Oh my god…”

When he can breathe normally again, Billy leans over and gently punches Steve’s arm.

“You little shit. You got me good. Goddamn deer! Could've wrecked my car.”

Steve laughs, rubbing at the spot Billy hit. The tension bleeds from the car and Billy feels like the edge has been taken off for the first time tonight. He starts the car, slowly pulling back onto the road.

“Where the hell do you live, anyway?”

“Uh… take the next left,” Steve says, pointing. Billy knows this road. It heads to the nicer part of Hawkins, which makes sense. From what he’s heard Steve’s folks are loaded.

It doesn’t take more than ten minutes before Steve’s pointing to a dark house with a huge lawn and a big garage. Billy pulls into the drive and lets the engine idle.

Steve doesn’t move.

After a few seconds Billy looks over. That same hollow look is back on Steve’s face.

“... Anyone home?”

“No,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head. He twists, grabbing the bat out of the back seat and clutching the handle.

“... Okay…” Billy says. They’re back in spooked animal territory, and it’s weird as hell. Unsettling.

“Hey,” Steve suddenly says, way too loudly. “Do you wanna like… watch TV or something? I’ve got, uh… beer…?”

Billy raises his eyebrows but before he can reply, Steve’s opening the door and scrabbling out the car.

“Forget it, sorry. It’s late, thanks for the lift. See you.”

“Woah, woah. I ain’t saying no to free beer,” Billy says, cutting the engine and climbing out the car.

His heart is pounding again, that same feeling of about to get caught and getting away with something rushing under his skin.

Besides, Steve’s acting weird as hell, and he still kind of owes him one for the diner thing.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my beta! Again, if you enjoyed this chapter leave me a comment! They super inspire me to keep writing ;) Thank you!


	5. You Can't Hurry Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hell yeah I'm back, baby. Sorry for the wait, thanks for your patience, enjoy this new update!
> 
> Enjoy! And a HUGE thanks to my beta!!! Love u <3

 

Steve’s house is even nicer on the inside. Billy feels out of place already as he shoves his hands in his pockets and watches Steve turn on all the lights.

He knows deep down he shouldn’t be here. They’re not friends. Hell, they’re not even friendly.

Steve’s still carrying the weird goddamn bat. Billy shifts his weight and the floor creaks under his feet until Steve turns to face him again.

“So, uh. Beer. Right. In the kitchen.”

“Sure,” Billy says.

Why the hell is Steve so tense? He said no one was home, there were no other cars in the drive. It’s not like he’s got anyone to hide from. He’s lucky. He’s home alone, doing whatever he wants without some shadow looming in from the sidelines.

He follows Steve into a huge kitchen, leaning against the centre counter as Steve opens the fridge and pulls out two cans of beer.

“Nice place, Harrington. Daddy’s got a good job, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Mommy’s working, too?” Billy whistles through his teeth. “Damn.”

“They both work at the same company. They travel a lot.”

He catches the can Steve throws to him and cracks the top open.

“Must be nice.”

“I guess,” Steve says again. He doesn’t look like he buys it. Billy watches him fiddle with the tab before he finally opens it and takes a sip.

Must be nice to have parents you’d _want_ to have around. Though it doesn’t seem like they want to be around that much.

Steve’s eyes keep flicking to something off to the side. Billy turns his head, fingers twitching on the can. He’s still definitely on edge. Most of the wall is actually glass windows; oily black and slicked with the shimmer of light from the kitchen. They both look ghostly and fake in the reflections.

Big windows at night have always spooked him a bit.

“So what, you wanna chat like a housewife in the kitchen, princess?” he drawls. Steve rolls his eyes. He starts to leave, glancing back to the window one last time.

Billy can’t help but look back, too. The darkness doesn’t move behind them, but Billy feels a chill touch against the base of his spine. This whole night is creeping him out.

The living room is as big as Billy’s kitchen and living room combined. He sits himself down on the wide sofa opposite the TV without being told.

“Shit, Harrington. You’re really living the high life out here.”

“It’s not like you’re in a trailer,” Steve mutters, turning on the TV and sitting down next to him.

Billy snorts, taking a deep swig of his beer.

The couch is comfortable and he sinks easily back against the cushions. A rush of exhaustion hits him. He’s been awake for way too long and it's hardly been an easy day. The aluminium can is cold in his hands and he bites back a yawn.

Steve turns on the TV and starts flicking through the channels. There's not much on this time of night, and as he turns to one where some horror movie is playing, he and Billy both jump at the blood-curdling scream from the woman on screen. Steve fumbles with the remote and after a second manages to switches the channel to a static one.

The white noise has always freaked Billy out, and he shifts uncomfortably on the sofa.

“I'll put on a video,” Steve says.

“You got those?” Billy asks, raising his eyebrow and taking another swig of beer. That’s pretty sweet. He grabs the remote out of Steve’s hand and flicks back to some boring news channel. Anything but the hiss and roar of static.

Steve pushes himself to his feet and opens a cupboard next to the TV, full of VHS tapes.

Damn. That is pretty sweet. If he wasn’t so tired he’d go have a look himself at what the Harringtons have to offer, but for now he just watches Steve running his fingers along the spines of the movies. There’s something almost delicate about Steve’s hands. They’re not calloused or rough like his, there’s no ragged skin where he’s picked at his nails. Billy looks down at his fingers, crooked now.

He’s a goddamn mess. He probably looks like hell.

What the hell is he doing here? Why is Steve letting him be here?

Billy gulps down half the can in one go.

“Okay,” Steve mutters to himself, prying a tape out of the plastic box. After five minutes of fiddling with wires and a big black box under the TV, Steve slumps back down on the sofa and the film starts up.

Billy finishes his beer before it properly starts and puts the can aside, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s some weird film about an army guy turned ninja, but it’s entertaining enough to keep him from thinking about other things.

He’s done with thinking for tonight. He’s just going to watch this movie and drive home and put this weird night out of his head forever.

Billy stifles a yawn, and then another one. Suddenly the main guy is in Japan or something, and without realising he falls asleep.

He’s woken by his pillow shifting under him and bright sunlight in his eyes. He brings his hand up to rub his face and his fingers catch against cloth, and something on _top_ of his head shifts and--.

Billy’s eyes fly open as he freezes.

He’s pressed up against Steve, both of them semi-horizontal on the couch. One of his legs is over the armrest, the other sticking off the couch, and he’s managed to wedge himself on his side between the cushions and the back. His head is on Steve’s chest, Steve’s hand on his head, both of Steve’s feet on the floor and his head against the armrest.

Billy’s heart pounds against his ribs, rattling like something loose in an engine. He’s totally trapped. If he tries to wriggle out he’ll definitely wake Steve up, and then he’ll _know_ , and then his dad will find out and…

He closes his eyes tight as Steve’s fingers twitch against his head. Shit. _Shit_.

One of his hands is bent awkwardly against his own stomach, but the other is flat on Steve’s chest. He can feel the slow, steady beat of his heart.

Billy snatches his hand back and moves so violently he shocks himself. Steve crashes to the floor in a tangle of limbs with a yelp and Billy scrambles back, almost sending the sofa toppling backwards as he shoves himself over the back of it to stand on shaking legs.

“What the hell, Harrington!?” he hisses, anger and panic exploding like fireworks in his gut.

“What the hell _Harrington_?! What the hell _Hargrove_! Jesus Christ! What the hell is the matter with you?!”

“Shut the hell up,” Billy growls. What time is it? How long was he sleeping for? He turns to look out the window, still squinting. He can hear birdsong and the sun’s bright.

Goddamn it.

“... What time is it? What--... did you fall asleep?” Steve asks blearily, pushing himself to sit. “Did _I_ fall asleep?”

“Wow, princess, not just a pretty face but a brain as well,” Billy sneers, running his hands through his hair. It’s rough from the product he never washed out, his fingers tangling in his curls.

He’s not fallen asleep next to someone since Daniel. Shit. He feels nauseous. Steve’s gonna _know_ somehow, and hell, maybe Billy’s gonna meet the business end of that bat.

“Oh,” Steve simply says, yawning and climbing to his feet. He stretches, wincing and rubbing his neck. “Do you want coffee…?” he offers, after a moment of awkward silence.

Whatever words Billy was about to spit out die on his tongue as he stares at Steve. Coffee? Why the hell isn’t Steve kicking him out or trying to punch him or something? Why the hell is he offering to make _coffee_?

“Or tea, I guess, if you don’t like coffee…?” Steve says, turning off the TV - which has been left on all night.

Billy turns, walking off into the house.

“Hey! Where are you going? Hargrove!”

“I gotta piss, princess!” he shoots back, climbing the fancy set of stairs and loudly throwing open doors until he finds a bathroom. He slams and locks the door behind him.

He needs a goddamn minute. Probably five.

Billy turns the cold tap on and splashes his face with water, trying to clear the confusion from his mind. This is totally weird, new territory. Steve didn’t freak out. He should’ve freaked out. They were goddamn _cuddling_. Maybe he didn’t realise… maybe he hadn’t woken up in time to realise how they were laying on the couch before Billy kicked him off it.

Shit. What the goddamn hell is he _doing_ here? He doesn’t want to be Steve’s friend. Steve certainly doesn’t want to be his friend, right? He should just go. Drive off, pretend this never happened, and never think about it again. He can hang out with Tommy the Idiot and leave Steve in the social mud - at the bottom of the ladder Billy worked so hard to kick him down from.

He’s _popular_ , goddamn it. He’s ruling the place. Why the hell would he let all of that go?

Billy looks at himself in the mirror. He sees a thousand bruises flit over his face. He sees busted lips and black eyes. He sees Steve lit by neon blue light, and feels the pulse of a heartbeat under his palm.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint he has not to punch the mirror.

He splashes more cold water on his face and breathes. He’s panicking. Another thing his dad tried to beat out of him when he was younger.

God, he’s a fucking mess.

When he can breathe calmly again Billy finishes up in the bathroom and heads down the stairs. He’s just going to leave. Get in his car and drive away. But as he creeps into the living room he’s suddenly hit by the smell of bacon and eggs. His stomach rumbles and as he pauses, deliberating on what to do, Steve peers round the corner.

“Jesus, what were you doing up there? I swear to god if you’ve broken something…”

“Relax, amigo, I didn’t shit on your mommy’s bed,” he drawls, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall.

Steve rolls his eyes.

“God. Gross. Do you want coffee or not? There’s orange juice, too, if you want.”

Billy’s stomach growls again and he hesitates as Steve disappears back into the kitchen. The radio is playing, and Billy digs his fingernails into his palms.

_You can't hurry love,_   
_No, you'll just have to wait,_   
_She said love won't come easy,_   
_It's a game of give and take._

… This is either going to be the biggest mistake of his life, or the best decision he’s ever made.

He takes another slow breath and heads into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my beta! Again, if you enjoyed this chapter leave me a comment! They super inspire me to keep writing ;) Thank you!


	6. It's Not Unusual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this! Wow! Another chapter! Just because I love all you guys. You're welcome. Enjoy, and a HUGE thanks to my awesome beta!

 

 

Billy eats the best breakfast he’s had in what feels like years. He usually just snatches toast while Neil’s getting his paper or driving Susan somewhere, or he skips it all together. But Steve’s fried eggs and bacon and he’s got a ton of Eggos in his freezer, butter and syrup and…

… It’s a damn good breakfast, and he doesn’t hold back. Even the OJ is the fancy stuff.

“So,” Steve says after most of the meal is gone, “are you going to get in trouble for not going home or something?”

Billy frowns, spearing a bit of egg with his fork.

“Couldn’t tell you, amigo. Depends on the old man’s mood.”

Steve pours himself another cup of coffee, turning the mug in his hands.

“About that night, with the diner…”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” he snaps, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth. Why the hell is Steve bringing it up again? It’s not like he cares. He swallows and points his fork at Steve. “I paid you back the money for the burger and I picked you up from your midnight freak-walk. We’re even. End of.”

Steve clearly hesitates, looking at Billy intently with his wide brown eyes. Billy feels the hair on his nape prickle, another twin burst of panic and anger unfurling in his chest. His fingers tighten on the fork.

“Fine. Fine,” Steve finally says, holding up his hands. “Whatever. None of my business.”

“Exactly,” Billy growls. It’s none of Steve’s business. He’s hardly going to spill his guts, tell him his dad beats him because he’s a pathetic queer who always messes everything up. Steve would be waiting his turn with that messed up bat. Hell, he’d have to fight Tommy for space in the goddamn line. He can’t tell anyone. Ever.

He pushes his plate away, feeling queasy. He shouldn’t have stayed.

This is why he doesn’t try to make friends anymore. People start asking questions. He’d rather have adoring fans like Tommy and Carol, people he can use to keep himself on top, who aren’t going to look at him with wide brown eyes and a worried face. People who don’t actually give a shit about him.

Not that Steve gives a shit about him, he reminds himself.

“Right,” Steve says, clattering the plates. “Washing, or drying?”

Billy jerks out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you want to wash or dry, Hargrove? You just got a free breakfast, you’re helping with the dishes.”

“So driving you home wasn’t good enough?” he drawls, leaning back in his chair and raising his eyebrow.

Steve stacks the crockery and takes it over to the sink.

“Nope,” he says cheerily. “In Chez Harrington chores are shared after a sleepover.”

Billy just stares at him in disbelief. The silence stretches between them, the radio DJ chattering quietly in the background. Steve points at the sink.

After a long second Billy throws his head back in laughter. It’s a genuine belly laugh, and he has no idea where the hell it came from.

He stands up and goes to the sink with an easy shrug, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well damn, _mom_ ,” he drawls. “Guess I’ll wash.”

“Atta-boy.” Steve grins, dumping the rest of the dishes and pans into the sink as Billy grabs a sponge and turns the faucet on.

Billy watches the sink slowly fill with water. He glances over to Steve who’s grabbing dishcloths from a drawer.

“... A sleepover, Harrington? Really? How old are you?” he finally says.

Steve shoots him a sheepish grin and shrugs, flicking one of the dishcloths he’s holding over his shoulder.

“Listen, I regularly let four kids crash here. If I didn’t make them help out I’d never stop cleaning up after them. Call it a habit, if it makes you feel better.”

“Your freak-squad,” Billy snorts. “Seriously? You actually hang out with them?”

Steve shrugs again as Billy rinses off the first dish and shoves it on the drying rack.

“Hey, man. Don’t judge.”

“Oh, I’m judging. Can’t work out if it’s weirder you having them all in your house, or you hanging out in that weirdo shack in the woods.”

“Hey,” Steve says again, tone and expression suddenly serious. “The Byers went through hell, okay? Seriously. Say what you like about me or whatever, but leave them out of it. You’ve got no idea what they’ve been through.”

Something in Steve’s tone kills the snarky remark on his tongue and the sudden spike of fire in his gut. Something about the intense way he’s staring at him, not angry or disgusted, just… firm.

“... Whatever,” Billy mutters, shrugging and turning his attention to the dishes. He still thinks the weirdos in the woods are seriously strange, but… whatever. None of his business.

After a few more dishes Steve suddenly turns the radio up.

“I love this song,” he says with a grin. Tom Goddamn Jones starts blasting out the speakers.

_It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone._   
_It’s not unusual to have fun with anyone._   
_Oh when I see you hanging about with anyone,_   
_It’s not unusual to see me cry._

“... _Really_ , Harrington?” Billy says, looking over in open distaste.

“Uh, _yeah_. It’s a good song!” Steve reaches out, taking the newly washed wooden spoon from Billy’s hand.

“It’s a goddamn awful song. It’s a mom song. How the hell did you get to be King Steve with shit taste in music?”

Steve pauses for a second and then shrugs.

“I pretended to like what was cool and hate what wasn’t. Like good music, like this song is.”

Before Billy can reply Steve is turning the radio up again, shuffling round the kitchen in what Billy can only assume is meant to be dancing, and singing into the wooden spoon as if it’s a microphone.

“Oh my god,” he groans, but he’s fighting back a grin as Steve does a ridiculous head-bop. He looks--...

Billy curbs the thought before it can really take hold, looking down at his hands in the sink, suds clinging to his wrists. This all feels… surreal. Kind of like when he’s waiting on a beating, like he’s having an out of body experience or something.

The hair on his arms and the bubbles gleam golden in the early morning sunshine. He can smell the remains of breakfast, his belly full of good food. The music is shit but cheery. Everything feels… light.

He sees the crook of his broken fingers exaggerated under the water.

“Hey,” Steve says, and the touch to Billy’s arm makes him flinch. “Anyone home?”

He shrugs Steve’s hand off, starting to scrub at a frying pan.

“Your singing’s so bad I was trying not to puke, Harrington.”

“Ha-ha,” Steve deadpans, rolling his eyes and drying the plates. The song changes on the radio, and Billy exhales slowly.

He’s still tired. This is just a really weird night slash morning. It’ll be back to normal soon.

They wash the rest of the dishes with a peaceful quiet between them. When the last plate is put away he turns to Steve and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I’m gonna go,” he says, pulling his pack of cigarettes - very crumpled - from his jeans pocket. “Thanks for breakfast, amigo. Don’t go doing more weird shit.”

“I’m honestly flattered by your concern,” Steve smirks. “Maybe the way to a guy’s heart _is_ through his stomach.”

Billy rolls his eyes and turns on his heels.

“Shut the hell up, Harrington. I just don’t wanna get jailed for accidentally running you over.”

Steve’s laughter follows him as he closes the front door behind him and heads to his car.

He’s still got a stupid little grin on his face as he pulls out the driveway and heads home.

\---

Life does return to normal. Sort of. He doesn’t bring up that night to anyone and as far as he can tell, neither does Steve. Mostly they ignore each other. Billy stays with Tommy and Carol and the popular kids, Steve with Wheeler and Byers.

He catches himself watching them at lunch sometimes. It baffles him how Steve can sit there all buddy-buddy while the school freak holds hands with his ex-girlfriend. Why the hell does he hang out with them? Is it because Byers’ brother went missing? He’s heard rumours and he knows Max hangs out with the kid in their little weirdo squad, but the whole thing is confusing as hell. It annoys him. He doesn’t like mysteries, and he can’t ask too many questions. It’ll make it seem like he cares, which he doesn’t.

Billy’s half asleep in science class a few weeks later. December’s crept in cold and miserable, and his jean jacket is not giving him nearly enough warmth. He misses California like a hole in his heart. The mean hangover he’s nursing doesn’t help, and he’d kill for a cigarette.

Miss Scott suddenly claps her hands together.

“Right!” she warbles. “Partners!”

People start to turn to their friends but she claps her hands again.

“No, no! I shall be drawing names and assigning random partners.” She rattles a cardboard box, looking over all them. She clears her throat and starts picking names as the whole class groans.

It takes Billy a few moments to work out this is for some lame winter project he’s meant to do with someone over Christmas. Shit. He hopes he gets someone smart and terrified of him.

“Steve Harrington,” Miss Scott reads, “and Billy Hargrove.”

… Huh.

The class goes quiet. Billy grins wolfishly, leaning in towards Steve who sits a few desks from him.

“Well well well. You and me, amigo.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Hope you’re not as dumb as you act, Hargrove, because there’s no way I’m doing this project solo.”

Billy laughs, sitting back again.

“Yeah? We’ll see about that.”

Miss Scott keeps talking and after a few moments they’re all paired up. Hilariously Byers and Carol are stuck together, both looking horrified. That’s pretty damn funny.

“Right. Everyone up, find a seat next to your new partner. The rest of the lesson is for you to plan your project.” Miss Scott sits down at her desk and takes out a book.

After a second Billy stands up, kicking his bag over to Steve’s desk and giving Derek Basing’s shoulder a shove to get him out of the seat next to Steve.

“You heard her, Basing. Move.”

“Jesus, Hargrove, whatever,” he grumbles, gathering his stuff and scrambling out the seat. Billy flops down, swinging his legs over the desk and putting his hands behind his head.

“It’s a Christmas miracle, princess.”

“Man, Santa really came through this year. Just what I wanted. An asshole.” Steve says drily. Billy raises his eyebrows and lets his gaze drop obviously down over Steve.

“What, yours not working right?”

Steve stares at him for a second before he cracks, trying to hide his laugh as he grabs a notebook from his bag.

“I was serious, Hargrove, I’m not doing all the work solo.”

“Chill out,” Billy drawls, looking over to the board. “I won a prize for a science competition back in California.”

Steve stares him in outright disbelief. Billy winks.

“Oh, yeah. I’m a real jack-of-all-trades, Harrington. You’re a lucky guy. Hey, maybe you’ll even get some of your popularity back.”

“No, thanks. You can keep all that bullshit.”

Steve opens his notebook and writes ‘Ideas’ at the top. Billy cards his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t get it. He just doesn’t get it. It’s not like he’s gonna give the top space over to Steve, but damn. The guy could stand to climb a few rungs.

After a few moments of silence Steve turns to look at him again.

“Alright, Hargrove. You got an idea, or what?”

“Sure,” Billy shrugs. He waits until Steve opens his mouth, frustration clear on his face before he leans forward and grabs Steve’s pen from his hand, writing in the middle of the page and reading aloud at the same time.

“Effect of temperature on the rate of decomposition.” He underlines it twice and drops the pen. “Get some garbage, shove it in a glass jar with a thermometer, let nature do the work.”

Steve blinks, mouth a little open.

“... That’s… actually genius,” he says slowly, looking down at the page. “Huh. Maybe this isn’t going to totally suck.”

Billy presses his hand to his chest.

“Ouch.”

Steve starts writing down notes on the paper, sketching out jars and half talking to Billy as he does so. Billy stays quiet, watching him write and giving a grunt when it sounds like Steve’s really looking for his input, but the guy’s pretty smart for a former jock. Maybe hanging out with Wheeler and Byers has rubbed off on him.

Still. Billy’s pretty damn smart, too. He doesn’t want to look like an idiot in front of Steve. It’s what keeps him King, not a pawn. He’s a jerk, but he’s not stupid. No matter what his dad says. If he wanted to he could get As. He could go to college if he wanted. He lifts weights, he drives, he learned the guitar back in California. He can skate, surf, and sing.

As soon as he’s old enough he’s leaving Hawkins in the dust. He’s cutting all ties with his dad, with Susan, with Max. With this bullshit little town in shit-hole Indiana. He’ll find some corner of the world and live his own damn life, and all of this shit will be a bad memory.

By the end of the class he and Steve have a pretty solid plan for a project that’ll take minimal effort on their part.

“So, do you wanna come to mine, or shall I come to yours, or…?” Steve says as the bell goes.

“Your place,” Billy says, immediately. No goddamn way is he bringing Steve into his house. The very idea of it, of his dad looking at Harrington’s coiffed hair and soft expression, of his dad somehow knowing the thoughts Billy’s had--... no.

He just wants to go a few months without a beating. Especially when school’s out and no one will be around to see the bruises.

“Fine. What about, uh… Saturday night?”

Billy slings his bag over his shoulder and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Sure thing, princess.”

He turns on his heel and walks out before Steve can say anything else. He’s not even out the door before he’s shoving a cigarette between his lips and fumbling for a lighter.

Saturday night.

Billy clenches his hand into a fist. He can feel the phantom pulse of a heartbeat under his fingers, and the echo of Tom goddamn Jones in the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my beta! Again, if you enjoyed this chapter leave me a comment! They super inspire me to keep writing ;) Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't have a beta for this, so I apologise for mistakes and weird things. I'm also not American, and I wasn't around in the 80s, so if anything's totally wrong please let me know.
> 
> If you enjoyed it, leave me a comment! It inspires me to write more :)


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